


Twas the Night

by aimless38



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 10:40:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1092915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimless38/pseuds/aimless38
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stuck at Christmas in a cabin in the Carpathian mountains isn't so bad. Especially when you have your team to share it with you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twas the Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nicari_chan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicari_chan/gifts), [Kika988](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kika988/gifts).



> Here is my Holiday fic offering.

 

Twas the night

 

December 24th and Clint found himself sitting in a small, two room safe house near the town of Siret in Romania. He was waiting for a SHIELD extraction unit to usher the Delta team home.

 

Clint glanced around the main room and took in the wood stove, small table, two chairs and low sofa, which their handler, one Phil Coulson, was currently using as a bed.  It wasn’t supposed to be a particularly dangerous mission: gather intel on a suspected A.I.M installations just across the Ukrainian border, meet with an informant, and retrieve vital information about said bases.

 

Easy, right? Well, such relatively low-risk missions had a way of going belly up.

 

They’d been ambushed. The informant was killed but not before he handed over the SD card with the intel. Clint would rather choose not to remember the hair-raising descent down the mountains and subsequent chase by a fair amount of AIM flunkies. Agent Coulson’s unflappable nature and nerves of steel were well known among SHIELD's elite. So the team avoided capture and made it across the border into Romania.

 

But none of them could have anticipated the freak blizzard or the sudden wall of snow that decided to come roaring down the slopes to nearly bury their transport. The vehicle was pushed sideways off the road and down into a ravine. It seemed that gunfire was not good for avalanche-prone areas. The upside was that it also took care of their last remaining pursuers.

 

It was a miracle they’d escaped with fairly minor injuries, the worst being Clint’s dislocated shoulder. Agent Coulson had a few cracked ribs and broken nose from his impact with the steering wheel. Various bumps and bruises also decorated their bodies making moving around distinctly uncomfortable.

 

Team Delta salvaged what they could from the vehicle. Then, a small explosive charge from one of Clint’s arrows turned what was left into unrecognizable wreckage. It was an uncomfortable hike to the small SHIELD safe house. The knee deep snow had been a hindrance. More than once, Clint had stumbled and almost fallen. He’d caught himself on a tree with his injured shoulder and had almost passed out from the sudden flash of pain.

 

It was Natasha who kept him on his feet and moving over the rough terrain. She carried the bulk of the gear, including Clint’s bow case. Despite that, the team made good time to the small house. It was nestled in a grove of evergreens at the end of a snow-covered dirt road.

 

Coulson had activated their tracker right after the crash. Now all they had to do was wait.

 

The interior of the house was dark and cold when the door was pushed open. Getting out of the wind was a relief. It didn’t take long to start a fire in the wood stove. A brief recon of the shelter turned up a lean-to at the back well stocked with fire wood. The house had no electricity, but it was supplied with lanterns and kerosene.

 

Clint complained bitterly about the facilities. An outhouse stood at the back of the cabin on the edge of the clearing. He groaned and mentioned freezing his dick off if he needed to pee. Natasha just looked at him unsympathetically and stated that at least he could urinate standing up.

 

There was no running water either, since the pipes would most likely have frozen and burst. But they had a readily available water source right outside. Snow could be melted in one of the various pots hanging from hooks in the miniscule kitchen area.

 

First things first though. They had to get out of their wet clothes and treat the injuries sustained in the crash. Clint hissed in pain as Natasha helped him out of his coat, vest, and heavy black sweater. His t-shirt was dry though. He kinda felt ridiculous standing around in his boxers and tee, but soon all their outer clothing was draped over every available surface to dry. So Clint was not alone being mostly undressed with his team. It also wouldn’t be the first time.

 

The archer eased himself down onto the wooden chair at the table. He watched as Nat dug the first aid kit out of one of their packs. She pushed Coulson down onto the sofa and gently cleaned the blood off his face. His swollen nose was determined to be a clean break but would bruise spectacularly and be sore as hell. Natasha also didn’t miss how carefully upright Coulson sat. Without concern for modesty, she lifted the hem of his thermal shirt and noted the large mottled red patch across his chest. Careful probing revealed the likelihood of several cracked ribs. The injury would be extremely painful but not life-threatening. She wrapped them with an ACE bandage and handed Phil some pain medication that he took without protest and dry swallowed. Then he reclined back on the couch and closed his eyes.

 

Phil mentioned his head was throbbing and he was wondering if the impact caused a concussion, so Natasha urged him to stay still but not to sleep for a few hours.

 

Then she approached Clint. He looked at his partner in trepidation.

 

“Do we have to?” the archer whined.

 

“Clint, you know if I leave it like that, the joint will swell even more. We need you functional. If we were tracked here, I’m going to need the help. Since Coulson probably has a concussion, he’ll most likely be useless with a firearm.”

 

“Will not, m’fine.” Came Phil’s reply from the sofa. The fact that he was slurring his words a little was a dead giveaway for his condition.

 

Clint and Natasha both looked at each other and rolled their eyes.

 

Natasha ran her hands over Clint’s distended shoulder, feeling and assessing the damage.

 

“You ready?” Natasha asked, as she placed her hands on Clint’s shoulder and back.

 

“Fuck no,” Clint forced out from between gritted teeth.

 

“On three.” Natasha calmly counted to two before forcing the joint back into place with a loud click. She ignored Clint’s squirming and his loud yell.

 

“You said three!” Clint accused as he blinked through the pain tears. He gingerly rotated the joint and stifled a gasp. It still hurt like fuck, but at least his arm was not useless anymore. He would not be drawing a bow any time soon but he could still fire a gun.

 

“I lied.” Natasha said with an overly sweet smile. “You ought to be used to this by now anyway.”

 

“What? Having you manhandle my injuries or lying?” Clint narrowed his eyes at his partner.

 

“Both.” Natasha patted him on the head and grabbed a rag off the tiny counter top. She went to the cabin door and leaned out to scoop up some snow into the makeshift cold pack.

 

The assassin ignored Clint’s cursing as she slapped the icy, wet cloth to his swollen shoulder. “Keep that there. I’m going to see if there is anything here to eat.”

 

“That woman is a menace.” Clint grumbled, as Natasha went to rummage through the cupboards.

 

“It was your decision to bring her in," Phil’s dryly amused voice answered from the couch. "Plus, if she keeps you in line it’s a bonus in my book.”

 

“Hey I’m the poster boy for good behavior!” Clint protested.

 

An amused snort was his only answer.

 

Natasha stood in the middle of the room and frowned. “I’ve only managed to find a carton of salt, a tin of pepper, and four cans of navy beans. We’re going to need more than that. I can walk to the nearest village and be back in a couple of hours.”

 

Coulson opened his eyes and regarded his team. “Are you sure that’s wise? We’ve gotten by with much less than this before.”

 

“But we shouldn’t have to. I’m familiar with this area, can blend in with the locals. You are perfectly aware I can speak the language. So I can get us some supplies and get a call out too, since our SAT phone is currently lying somewhere on the mountainside. I need to head out now before it gets dark though.” Natasha grimaced as she put her slightly damp clothing back on. She opted to leave the vest behind. She would not stand out too much in her dark pants, boots and parka.

 

“Better you than me.” Clint glanced out the window where it was starting to snow lightly.

 

“Asshole.” Nat pulled her hair back and stuffed it under a knit cap she pulled out of a coat pocket. She walked to the door and quickly left, wishing to conserve as much heat as possible in the small house.

 

Clint looked over at the sofa when Coulson groaned.

 

“Are you alright, sir?” Clint asked. He carefully sat on the other end of the lumpy monstrosity serving as a couch.

 

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

 

“It’s nothing I can’t handle. One of us needs to be alert in case something happens.” Clint shivered as the wind picked up outside.

 

“And that’s not me, apparently,” Phil said with a grimace as he sat up.

 

“Well, usually I am in awe of your manly competence, sir, but this time you’re the one with the head injury.”

 

“I think this sofa could theoretically be used as a torture device,” Coulson added as he tried to get comfortable.

 

“Scoot down then. This end’s not so bad,” Clint offered.

 

The archer was rather surprised when Phil carefully shifted nearer until they were almost touching. Coulson’s arm was wrapped around his aching ribs and Clint could see the mottled bruising that was starting to bracket Phil’s eyes.

 

What should have been a detriment to Phil’s features had quite the opposite effect on Clint. He had to resist the urge to reach out and touch, to try and lightly soothe away the lines of pain on Coulson’s forehead.

 

Clint had never been so scared in his life those few silent moments after the car had slid down into the ravine. He’d been sure everyone but him was dead. It was a thought that terrified Clint.

 

To be alone again.

 

Coulson’s cursing and groans of pain were the sweetest sounds he’d ever heard. Then he listened to Nat’s complaints from the back seat and all was right with the world.

 

Content to sit on the sofa and wait for Nat’s return, Clint froze when Phil, having fallen asleep again, shifted until his head was resting on Clint’s shoulder. Coulson’s breath was warm on the side of his neck. It was torture of the best kind.

 

Only Natasha was privy to his secret. It was confessed to her after an especially bad op and many shots of vodka.

 

Clinton Francis Barton was hopelessly in love with his handler one Philip Jacob Coulson.

 

It was totally inappropriate and left Clint wondering if it was just hero worship or something deeper. It was different than what he felt for Natasha. They were soul mates and not romantically involved at all. He trusted Nat with his life. Clint trusted Coulson for a whole other reason. He’d brought the rogue archer into SHIELD, made what Barton did mean something. Coulson believed in him when no one else thought a man with a criminal past and background in the circus could become an elite specialist.

 

As the years passed, Clint’s feelings changed. Being around Phil caused a bittersweet ache that he didn’t know how to make stop. Then there were the dreams, oh lord. They’d been the cause of more than one furious hand job or cold shower. It wasn’t just the imagined sex either. Clint truly trusted the man currently using his uninjured shoulder as a pillow. He wanted to spend time with Coulson when not on a mission. He wanted to get to know the man behind the agent.

 

Clint was shit-scared to tell Phil though. He was afraid it would ruin their working relationship and friendship, something he couldn't give up even if he tried. Natasha called him a fool for not taking a chance. There weren’t even any specific regulations about fraternization, only a strongly-worded suggestion that any personal affairs not interfere with an Agent’s duties.

 

It was information Nat looked up and gleefully imparted to the archer.

 

Now, the wind howled around the cabin. Clint looked up in alarm. It was getting dark and still Natasha was not back. Carefully, Clint extricated himself from Coulson and walked to the window. In the gathering dusk, snow swirled heavily around the building.

 

Natasha said she’d return in a few hours, and according to Clint’s watch, it was past that. He had to trust his partner though. If he went off into the storm and got lost, they were all screwed. There was no way he was leaving Phil alone to fend for himself.

 

So the archer began to pace, nearly working himself into a panic.

 

Then he heard a scraping sound on the cabin’s small porch. Clint drew his gun and waited by the door. He debated waking Coulson up until he heard Nat’s demand for him to open the fucking door already.

 

Clint breathed a huge sigh of relief and did as he was asked. Natasha stumbled inside and shook the snow off her clothes. She all but thrust her few bags at Clint before going to the stove. She peeled away the layers of sodden clothing, shivering all the while.

 

“I was afraid you weren't going to make it back,” Clint remarked as he helped his partner hang her dripping clothes over several chairs. Then he handed Nat his black sweater, now dry and warmed by the fire. She pulled it over her head and snuggled into the thick wool.

 

“I almost decided to stay in town but figured you’d be frantic. I knew there was no food here. I didn’t have too much trouble until I was about a mile out, then the wind came out of nowhere, bringing more snow. God, I hate the snow.” Natasha rubbed her hands back and forth in front of the stove grate.

 

“Agent, report.” Phil’s rough voice interrupted.

 

Natasha turned to Coulson and almost had to smother a laugh. Her handler’s hair was sticking up in all different directions and he blinked sleepily at the two of them. Still, he was all business and expected a concise detailing of her excursion.

 

“I made it to the village without any problems. Used our codes to make a call to our contact on a phone at the local pub. I was told to expect extraction in a few days. Seems this storm is only going to get worse. I got the supplies we needed from the marketplace. Didn’t raise any suspicion. I started back as soon as I was finished.”

 

Natasha walked back to the small, cold bedroom and stripped the blankets off the bed. She then proceeded to make herself a nest on the opposite end of the couch from Coulson. It had been brutally cold in the forest.

 

“Good job, agent. Get some rest.” Phil winced a little as he moved on the couch. He tucked his feet under the blankets near Natasha’s hip, hoping to keep them warm.

 

“Barton, see what you can do about making us a hot meal,” Coulson added.

 

Out of the three of them, Clint was undeniably the best cook. Years of camp living in the circus and working an odd job or two as a short order cook honed his skills. Phil could cook well enough to feed himself but Natasha even managed to burn water.

 

Clint looked fondly at his two favorite people practically snuggling on the sofa before he  started to unpack the bags Natasha brought back. He discovered a net bag of onions, a large bunch of carrots, a small sack of potatoes, and a large paper package of what looked like homemade noodles. They were all relatively easy things to carry. Canned goods would have simply been too heavy. He also found a few loaves of dark, crusty bread and a ball of butter wrapped in waxed paper. There was also a wedge of sharp local cheese. It would be enough to keep them going for several days. A box of tea bags was at the very bottom of the bag, much to his delight. They’d have something hot to drink soon.

 

Then one more small bag got his attention. It might have been a trick of the flickering light, but he swore it moved slightly.

 

“Nat, what is in that last bag?” Clint asked warily.

 

“I thought you could make some soup out of it,” she replied half asleep.

 

Then the bag made a soft clucking noise, and Clint groaned. “Couldn’t you have at least, I dunno, brought a dead chicken back?”

 

“Hey, look. Most of the shops were closed. I was lucky to find one stall in the food market willing to open the door. I spotted the hen house as I was leaving town. I grabbed what I could.” Natasha pulled the blankets up around her ears.

 

“Chicken thievery? This is what you are reduced to? I am appalled.” Clint said with mock horror.

 

“Fuck you, Barton," Natasha tartly replied. "I saw a hatchet in the lean-to. Now go make me some soup. I’m starving."

 

With a heavy sigh, Clint carefully put his pants and coat on, trying to ignore the fierce ache in his shoulder. He stepped into his soggy boots and grabbed the bag. Then he went out to the sheltered porch.

 

Coulson and Romanoff both glanced at the door when Clint came back in a few minutes later. The bag was still moving.

 

Natasha stared pointedly at the bag and arched one brow in question.

 

“I couldn’t do it, okay? I opened the bag and the chicken was looking at me with these huge eyes.”

 

Clint laid the bag down gently.

 

Natasha could not stop her half-snorted laughter. “You’re a big tough secret agent. You’ve killed people for a living. Treat it like a mission.”

 

“Nope, can’t do it. This is different. The chicken didn’t do anything.” Clint protested.

 

“Oh for god’s sake. Give me the damned thing.” Phil levered himself off the couch and slowly got dressed in his now dry clothing. He held out his hand expectantly.

 

Barton handed him the bag and tried not to look as Phil went out the back door to the enclosed lean-to.

 

“Baby," Natasha teased. "Big tough agent bested by a chicken.”

 

“Shut up.” Clint fired back, childishly.

 

He grabbed a large pot hanging from a hook on the wall and filled it with snow. He set it on the top of the wood stove. Then he took out his knife and began to cut the vegetables into bite sized pieces. He was clearly favoring his aching arm, but they were all feeling their bruises, so this was the least he could do to ensure they all got fed.

 

By the time the pot was and veggies were simmering, Phil came in the back door. He held a neatly skinned and gutted hen. Bits of feathers clung to his coat and his hands were spattered with blood. Coulson handed the bird to Barton and scrubbed his hands clean in some fresh snow right outside the door. Then he removed his coat and sank back down on the sofa.

 

Natasha lifted the blankets and Phil gladly shared her warm cocoon. They both watched as Clint cut the bird into chunks and added it to the pot along with some salt and pepper.

 

“I have to admit, sir, I am impressed.” Clint stirred the pot, added some more wood to the fire, and joined them on the couch. It was a tight squeeze but blissfully warm.

 

Phil merely shrugged and said, “I had an aunt who had a farm. I spent a lot of time there as a kid.”

 

Soon the cabin filled with the delectable smell of chicken soup. Clint got up once to heat some water for tea and add the packet of noodles. They all dozed in front of the fire in companionable silence until the food was cooked.

 

When it was ready, Clint filled the only large bowl he could find and added to a plate some pieces of bread and wedges of the sharp cheese. He sat back down between his team mates and handed out some spoons.

 

The chicken was a bit stringy but the soup was hot and full of noodles and vegetables. They ate greedily and sopped up the broth with chunks of the bread.

 

When it was gone and they all sat sipping from a shared mug of tea, Coulson looked fondly at his agents. He truly had the best team. It was more than pride. They were a family.

 

“It will be warmer if we sleep in here. We can drag the mattress off the bed.” Phil suggested.

 

The slightly musty mattress was dragged into the main room and all the blankets and dry coats piled on top. The stove was banked for the night before they settled onto the makeshift pallet. Coulson was in the middle with Nat and Clint on either side.

 

Legs slightly touching and arms entwined, it was comforting to be so close to each other. It was something Natasha would allow with no one else. Remembering something, Natasha sat up and rummaged in her coat that was draped on a nearby chair. Curiously, Phil and Clint watched.

 

Natasha ducked her head slightly and held out her hands. There were three oranges and a small bag of chocolates. “I thought these might be nice. You know, to celebrate. With it being Christmas Eve and everything.”

 

Truly, his agents would never cease to amaze him. This was something that no one else would ever expect the Black Widow to do. But he knew she was very affectionate with those she trusted implicitly. As far as Phil guessed, that list consisted of just two people.

 

Inordinately touched, Phil took the treats. He divided the chocolates between them and set the oranges aside for breakfast.

 

“Thank you, Natasha, for thinking of us,” was the only thing Phil could think to say.

 

“Yeah, Nat. Who would have thought that under your cold exterior beat a heart of pure mush,” Clint stated as he licked chocolate off his fingers.

 

He yelped as she poked him with her cold toes. Natasha did note with satisfaction though that Phil was avidly watching Clint’s tongue as he lasciviously chased down the last bit of chocolate. Clint was a notorious whore for sweets.

 

Natasha shook her head and swore she heard Phil whimper as Clint finished his little impromptu show. God, they were so clueless.

 

The firelight flickered off the walls as they all settled down, exhausted by their ordeal. It didn’t take long for them to fall asleep.

 

Coulson nodded off last, relishing the feeling of Clint pressed against his side. He didn't want to miss a single minute of their enforced closeness.

 

During the night, they ended tangled up under the blankets. Clint slept on his back with his sore arm on the outside. Phil was on his side with his head pillowed on the archer’s chest and his leg thrown across Clint’s thighs. Natasha was plastered against Phil’s back with her feet tucked under his other leg.

 

It was the insistent throbbing of Clint’s shoulder that woke him first.

 

Phil was clinging to him, so Clint dared not move. It was perfect, despite the hardness of the floor and the scratchiness of the blankets. If only, Clint thought wistfully.

 

The archer blinked a few times in the muted light of the room. He glanced at his wristwatch: five a.m. They’d actually managed to sleep the whole night. Amazing.

 

Then Clint looked above his head and had to smother a laugh. The slight noise woke Phil, and much to Clint’s delight he didn’t pull away. The senior agent looked at Clint questioningly.

 

Clint merely pointed to a spot directly above his head.

 

Hanging from one of the chairs with a piece of twine was a sprig of mistletoe.

 

Natasha, it seemed, decided to take matters into her own hands.

 

“I don’t know where she got that or at what point she decided to hang it above our heads,"  Clint started to protest, "but I don’t expect you to-”

 

Phil leaned up on one elbow and smiled down at Clint, silencing him mid sentence. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that it’s bad luck to ignore it?”

 

“I know but,” Clint stammered.

 

“Do you want this?” Phil quietly asked.

 

“More than anything,” was all that Clint could say.

 

“Merry Christmas, Clint,” Phil said softly, and he lowered his mouth to Clint’s.

 

The kiss was soft and sweet. A simple press of lips to lips. At least initially. The needy little sounds Clint was making made heat shoot through Phil’s body.

 

He deepened the kiss and Clint gladly let him inside. Clint groaned at the slick slide of their tongues as Phil’s fingers cupped Clint’s face.

 

Clint’s hand stroked the nape of Phil’s neck and tugged him closer. A pained hiss from the agent had him pulling back in surprise.

 

“Shit, I’m sorry I forgot about your nose,” Clint apologized.

 

“It’s alright,” Phil reassured the archer, as his fingers traced Clint’s lower lip.

 

“Good. It worked." Natasha’s sleep rough voice cut into their moment together. "The tension between you two was giving me a headache. Now shut the hell up and let me sleep. Oh and Merry Christmas.”

 

Clint couldn’t help it. He cracked up. Phil smiled too, as much as his throbbing nose would allow.

 

“Merry Christmas, Phil,” Clint said reverently.

 

He grinned as Phil settled down again with his head in the crook of Clint’s neck and his arm thrown over the archer’s chest.

 

“Merry Christmas both of you,” Phil whispered.

 

Clint sighed in utter contentment.

 

For once, it seemed that this Christmas, he’d finally gotten everything he’d ever desired.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
